


Shattering the Teacup

by BisexualHannibalLecter



Series: Teacups & Time [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arguing, Blood, Broken Bones, Crying, Episode: s03e06 Dolce, Fights, Gun Violence, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Metaphors, Minor Character Death, Murder, Murder Husbands, Past Character Death, Plot Twists, Post-Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, Stabbing, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:07:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24828049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BisexualHannibalLecter/pseuds/BisexualHannibalLecter
Summary: Will meets Hannibal in the Uffizi Gallery, and a simple question leads to a shocking revelation.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Teacups & Time [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1795879
Comments: 18
Kudos: 161





	Shattering the Teacup

**Author's Note:**

> I've spent five weeks writing this, and I also had a friend beta read it for me to be sure the pacing, grammar, and tenses were all good. This will be the first part in a three-part series. I hope you like it!
> 
> Also don't ask me how they fought in the Uffizi Gallery without getting kicked out, I don't know either.
> 
> Also, thank you so much to my lovely beta reader, @PaintedVanilla! She's not a Hannibal fan, but she was sweet enough to help me edit this monster and I love her for it. If you're a Good Omens fan, go check her out!

The first words Hannibal says to Will after months of separation are possibly the most romantic words Will has ever heard. They’re all the more gut-wrenching for it.

“If I saw you every day, forever, Will, I would remember this time.”

Hannibal smiles at him, as if nothing is wrong. As if they aren’t battered and bruised, covered in blood and wounds. As if that night didn’t happen. As if they are simply two lovers meeting in an art gallery for a nice, quiet evening.

Will can’t possibly describe how he’s feeling right now, except that he’s  _ conflicted _ . He’s so terribly, disgustingly, thoroughly conflicted.

He loved Hannibal. He wants to keep loving him. But he can’t love the man that killed their daughter. He can’t share a meal with him, or lay next to him in bed at night, or even sit by him at this very moment without feeling the urge to slit his throat out of rage and frustration. 

It would be just, he tells himself. _ Even. _

“I wanted to understand you before I laid eyes on you again,” he says softly. It’s the truth. He desperately wishes he could understand this, but it’s the one thing he can’t figure out. The evidence doesn’t explain this. “I needed it to be clear—” He swallows, his emotions bubbling up into something he can barely contain. As he locks eyes with Hannibal, he’s sure that he can see the emotions plain on his face. “—what I was seeing.”

Hannibal tilts his head, confused by Will’s statement. He thought Will understood the plan by now. He couldn’t imagine what needed to be addressed.

“How long until Abigail joins us?” he asks, smiling softly.

Will’s fist collides with Hannibal’s face before he even has time to give it a second thought. The rage has won out.

Hannibal is knocked off the bench, and his pencil and sketchbook go flying across the room. He looks up at Will in confusion and disbelief, rubbing his sore jaw, watching as Will jumps up from his seat and glares down at Hannibal.

“Will—”

“You can’t leave well enough alone, can you? We can’t have one good moment without you  _ fucking it up _ !” Tears well up in his eyes, frustration and sadness that has been simmering under the surface for months on end threatening to spill over. 

“You act like you love me,” he continues, “in your own twisted, fucked up way. You act like you love me. You talk like you love me. You look at me like you love me. You tried to be a family with me and Abigail, you tried to get me to run away with you, you told me you  _ couldn’t leave without me _ that night I called you to  _ warn you _ . I did what someone would really do when they love someone else— I tried to fucking help you. I tried to protect you, even after everything that had happened. And how the fuck did you repay me, Hannibal? You gave our daughter back to me, and then you slaughtered her for me to witness, and then you left us both bleeding out on your kitchen floor to die.”

Tears run down Will’s cheeks, and he wipes them away, carrying blood and dirt with them. 

“You gaslighted me,” he says. “You framed me. You made me think our daughter was dead. And then…” Will falls back down onto the bench, burying his face in his hands. “Why did you have to kill her?” he whispers.

Several seconds of silence, and then, “Abigail is dead?”

Will has never seen such genuine shock on Hannibal’s face. It does nothing to deter his anger, though.

“No,” he says, pointing at Hannibal. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to manipulate me anymore!”

Hannibal pushes himself off of the floor. “Will, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I did not kill Abigail.”

He sounds perfectly sincere, and Will desperately wants to believe him.

“You slit her throat in front of me! You made me watch! You murdered our daughter!” The anger starts to drain away again, grief taking its place. “I watched them wheel out the body bag.”

Hannibal turns his head up to face Will, and the sight of him nearly knocks the breath out of Will. He has never seen the other man look so unlike himself. It’s Hannibal’s tears that surprise him the most; he had never thought of the other man as being a remorseful killer.

“No,” Hannibal says. “No. I cut her perfectly, Will, just as I cut you. I knew what I was doing. She isn’t dead.”

The realization dawns on Will, and his entire body feels heavy. He hears nothing but the roar of blood in his ears.

“You wanted us both to find you,” he breathes. “You needed it to look real. You needed people to believe you wanted us dead, or alive and suffering.”

Hannibal nods, placing a hand on Will’s arm and squeezing it. “I knew I couldn’t take you that night. Or the evening before, even though I had offered. I knew I had to run, and you had to follow me. It could not work any other way.” Hannibal swallows. “And… I admit, I wanted you to hurt. I wanted you to feel the same pain you inflicted upon me when you lied.”

There were plenty of things Will could say about that last bit, but he was too distraught over Abigail to care at the moment.

“There is always another way,” Will insists, grabbing his arm in return, gripping him like a lifeline. “You didn’t have to stab me. You didn’t have to…” The weight of Will’s emotions nearly pull him to the floor.

To think Abigail died because Hannibal was a monster was painful. To think there was nothing he could have done was painful. To know it was an accident, that she should be alive right this moment, with them— it hurt Will beyond words.

And then comes Hannibal’s voice, quietly, asking, “Did you see her body?”

“What?”

“Did you see her body, Will?” he asks.

Will doesn’t question Hannibal. He’s in too much pain already to get into another screaming match.

He thinks back to that night eight months ago. He sees Hannibal’s kitchen floor, sees his blood mingling with Abigail’s as he crawls over to her, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. He sees the light leave Abigail’s eyes.

Will collapses against Hannibal, sobbing. “Yes,” he chokes out. “Yes, I saw her body.”

Hannibal holds Will up, pressing a kiss to his forehead in an attempt to comfort him, and rubs Will’s back. “Shh,” he whispers. “No more of that for now. Let’s go.”

Will just grips Hannibal tighter. After a few minutes, he lifts his head to look Hannibal in the eye. 

It almost breaks Hannibal’s heart.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, wiping away Will’s tears. “I wish I could take it back.”

“I know,” Will replies, his voice hollow and shaky. “I know.”

This time Will doesn’t doubt Hannibal. At last, he lets go and trusts him.

* * *

They have only a week together before their grieving is interrupted.

Hannibal cards his fingers through Will’s hair as they hold each other on the couch, the evening sunlight filtering through the windows. Hannibal has some piece of music playing, but it’s just white noise to Will. He can’t seem to focus on the world around him long enough without slipping back into the depression he’d been pushing down for months.

Will had barely spoken a word since they left the gallery. He would cry, or silently rest with Hannibal, or sleep, and he’d only eaten when Hannibal insisted. It had only been a week, but he knew there were many more days like this ahead.

Hannibal seemed to be nearly the opposite. It was almost as if he was not bothered by Abigail’s death. Will knew that wasn’t the truth, but it still worried him to see Hannibal give next to no response to the knowledge he murdered their daughter.

Will thought to ask him, to encourage him to be open about how he might be feeling, but he never got the chance. The peace of the evening was shattered by someone kicking in the door to Hannibal’s apartment.

For a moment, Will assumed it was the FBI. Jack hadn’t been far behind him when he left for Florence, and someone had to have seen them leave the gallery together the day before.

Hannibal had no doubts about who was invading his apartment. He knew men hired by Mason Verger were seeking him out, and he had expected them to find him here. Originally, it would have been fine by him, but with the news of his daughter’s passing, and Will to comfort, now was not a very good time.

And coming over unannounced during a time of family mourning was certainly  _ very rude _ .

Hannibal has enough time to press one more kiss to Will’s forehead before a dozen men rush into the room, each one armed. Hannibal pulls away from Will and stands, only for one of the men to shout at him not to move.

Hannibal scoffs. “Mason Verger wants me alive,” Hannibal says, fixing his sleeves. “You’re not going to kill me.”

“We can still shoot you,” one of the men says, raising his gun. “Mr. Verger made it very clear that we were to apprehend you by any means necessary.” He takes a step forward, only to fall to the ground moments later, blood seeping from a bullet hole in his head. 

Hannibal smiles and glances at the hole in the widow, cracks spider webbing in the glass.

_ Chiyoh. _

While the mercenaries are momentarily distracted, staring at the window with their guns aimed at the unseen shooter, Hannibal pulls Will into another room, barely missing the gunfire that follows.

Several more shots, and several loud thumps later, there’s a strangled shout. 

“Fuck!” one of the men cries out. 

There’s a sharp series of clicks, that of a gun that has run out of ammunition, and another man curses.

Hannibal leaves Will where he is, stepping back into the living room to see that Chiyoh has left him only two men, one unarmed and one bleeding from his left hand. He clicks his tongue.

“I really must talk to Chiyoh about this,” he says, stepping towards the two men. “It simply isn’t fair.”

Both of the men stare at him, and then each other, and the one with the injured hand dives for a gun next to one of the dead men. Hannibal grabs him, slamming him against the ground, only for the other remaining mercenary to jump onto his back. 

He gets to his feet and throws himself against the wall, pinning the man between it and himself, and bites into the mercenary’s arm until he tastes blood. The man screams, releasing him, and Hannibal turns around, licking the blood from his lips before headbutting him. The man slumps against the wall, falling to the floor, and Hannibal turns to find a gun in his face.

There’s a soft click of the hammer being pulled back, and Hannibal just smiles.

“Three against one doesn’t make for good odds, now does it?”

Before the man can reply, a knife is pushed through his torso, and he drops the gun, letting out a strangled gasp. He falls to the floor, revealing Will behind him, looking unimpressed. The man reaches for the gun, but Will kicks it away and steps on his hand, bones crunching under his shoe.

“You seem to have some pent up aggression,” Hannibal comments, ignoring the man’s pained screams.

“You seem to always take too fucking long to kill people,” Will replies.

“Art takes time.”

Will rolls his eyes and kneels down, pulling the knife out of the man’s back, turning him over and plunging it into his chest. He pulls it back out, and the light fades from the mercenary’s eyes. For a moment, as the blood pools on the floor, he’s reminded of Abigail, and he’s thrown into a flashback on the night she died.

Before either of them realize it, the man slumped against the wall jumps to his feet, knocking Hannibal aside and rushing at Will, pinning him to the floor and wrestling him for the knife. Will, completely caught off guard, lets the knife go, and it clatters to the floor. Before the man can grab it, however, Hannibal pulls him off of Will, throwing him against the wall once again. The man opens his mouth in protest, but the words die on his tongue as Hannibal leans forward, sinking his teeth into the skin of the man’s throat and biting through it, ripping it out with all the force and anger he’s been holding back.

Hannibal releases the man, letting him fall to the floor as blood pours from the wound and trickles from the corner of his mouth. The scrap of flesh falls from Hannibal’s mouth, and for once the coppery taste of blood is not satisfying.

He sees his kitchen. He sees Abigail. He sees the events from earlier that night so clearly in his mind, and bile rises to his throat.

_ “Are you sure about this?” she asks, fidgeting with her jacket. _

_ “You have to trust me, Abigail,” he replies. _

_ “I know. I  _ do _. I just…” She swallows and looks him in the eye, tears threatening to fall. “I don’t want to die.” _

_ He takes her into his arms, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You won’t die, I will make sure of it. I will take care of you. I love you, Abigail.” _

_ She sighs. “I love you, too, dad.” _

Hannibal falls to his knees, fingers digging into the carpet as he forces himself not to throw up. Tears well in his eyes, but he closes them tight. Behind his eyelids, he can only see Abigail, covered in blood. He presses his forehead against the floor, breathing deeply. 

When the images behind his eyes finally shift, they don’t get better. Abigail’s face morphs, the same brown hair now framing a different, much younger face, and her wounds change, becoming stab marks in her abdomen and bruises around her throat.

_ Mischa. _

“Hannibal?” Will asks softly, kneeling next to him. “Hannibal?”

“I killed her,” he whispers. “I told her she would be safe. I told her she wasn’t going to die.”

“Hannibal—”

“I killed her!” he yells angrily, sitting up, tears running down his cheeks. “I lied to her! She died and it’s my fault!” Mischa flashes in his mind again, and his face falls. “I was supposed to protect her…”

Will reaches for Hannibal and pulls him against his chest. Hannibal finally breaks, the anger dissipating and giving way to pure, unbridled greif. 

“I killed her,” he says, gripping Will tightly. “I killed her. It’s  _ my fault. _ ” He wasn’t sure at this point if he was talking about Abigail or Mischa.

Will shushes Hannibal, pressing kisses to the top of his head. “I love you,” he whispers. “I forgive you.”

That seems to calm Hannibal, who relaxes against Will completely. He doesn’t argue with Will about whether or not he deserves forgiveness. He doesn’t argue about whether or not he deserves Will’s love. He just replies, “I love you, too.”

They stay there, holding each other amongst pools of blood and scattered dead bodies, until Hannibal decides it’s time for them to pack up and leave.

“Where to next?” Will asks softly, pecking him on the cheek.

“How does Argentina sound?” Hannibal responds, pulling him in for a kiss.

Will licks his lips when he pulls away. Hannibal still tastes of blood.

“Lovely,” he replies, cupping Hannibal’s cheek. “Anywhere you take me will be perfect.” He kisses him again. “Even if it isn’t how you planned.”

Hannibal’s smile disappears. “Will—”

“Shh,” Will interrupts, kissing him again. “I love you. I forgive you.” He presses his forehead to Hannibal’s. “Do you understand, Hannibal? I love you. I forgive you.”

“But I—”

“I know,” he says. “I know. And we can talk about that when we get settled in Argentina.” He brushes his thumb along Hannibal’s cheek, wiping away tears. “What matters right now, though, is that we’re together. And that…” He swallows and forces a smile. “If you had it your way, she would be here, too.”

Hannibal nods and pulls Will into a hug. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”

Will holds him for a while, eventually pulling away and saying, “Let’s get going before someone catches up to us.”

Hannibal nods and pulls himself together, his face becoming emotionless, the redness around his eyes being the only sign of his previous distress. He takes Will’s hand, and they begin to leave.

As they walk through the main room, stepping over bodies, Hannibal grabs a teacup sitting on the end table and drops it to the floor, some of the shards landing in pools of blood. Will says nothing.

They exit the apartment together, leaving behind the death, the grief, and a final shattered teacup that would never come together.

* * *

Jack Crawford silently walks down the hall, meeting Frederick Chilton and two armed guards near the end, blocking his path to the mechanically controlled door.

“How’s the prisoner?” Jack asks.

“Patient,” Chilton corrects, stepping aside and grabbing his ID card, swiping it through the side of a small panel next to the door. The light on the panel turns from red to green, and the door buzzes loudly as it begins to open.

“Prisoner,” Jack insists.

Chilton sighs. “Still not talking. Playing back those recordings is the most boring part of my day.”

Jack huffs. “I’m shocked you still expect to hear something.”

“I’ve tried  _ everything _ ,” Chilton grumbles, stepping through the door. “Questions, compliments, insults— I’ve even offered a larger cell, better amenities, more privileges, but nothing has worked! I tried to offer information about myself, all lies of course, but that wasn’t successful either.”

“This kind of crazy doesn’t cave that easily,” Jack says, walking alongside Chilton to yet another door.

“But it’s been six months, Agent Crawford,” he exclaims. “I’m growing tired of waiting.” He’s silent for a moment, then adds, “I’m beginning to question if I really want to know what the little monster has to say.”

Jack snorts. “This isn’t a monster. This isn’t Hannibal.”

“Might as well be,” Chilton replies. He pulls his ID card out again and swipes it through the side of the panel. As the light changes and the buzzing starts, he says, “Last cell on your left. I have a chair set out for you.”

Jack raises a brow. “You’re not coming with me?”

Chilton shakes his head. “You’re on your own today. I have more important things to do that waste my time waiting around for something that’s obviously not going to happen. Good luck, Agent Crawford.”

Jack rolls his eyes and steps through the door, leaving Chilton behind him. He sees the chair at the end of the corridor and begins to walk toward it. Various patients speak to him, yell at him, reach out for him, but he ignores them all, keeping his eyes on the chair at the end of the hall. When he finally reaches it, he sets a hand on it, not yet turning to look at the cell. He takes a deep breath as he hears footsteps approaching.

“Agent Crawford,” a voice says. “What an unpleasant surprise. Though I  _ have _ been wondering when you would show up. You certainly took your time.”

Jack sighs and takes a seat, finally looking at the cell and the person in it. “Forgive me,” he replies insincerely, “I was mourning.”

“My condolences,” the prisoner replies. “I heard she was a kind and beautiful woman.”

Jack clenches his fists. “We’re not going to talk about her,” he says.

“Then what are we going to talk about?”

“Chilton says you haven’t spoken in six months. Why are you talking to me now?”

The prisoner laughs. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Jack stares silently at the glass barrier between them, confused. He shakes his head.

“I was waiting for you, Agent Crawford.”

“Why me?” he asks.

“Because you’re going to tell me where Hannibal is.”

Jack raises a brow. “What makes you think I’d do that?” He swallows, nervous under such a wide, prodding gaze, realizing too late that he’s already given himself away.

A tilt of the head, and then, a soft gasp. “Oh…”

“What?!” Jack snaps.

The prisoner laughs. “You don’t know where he is. No wonder I’m your secret weapon. You think you can bait him.”

Jack opens his mouth, intending to contradict the statement, then closes it. This, too, gives him away, and the prisoner laughs again.

“You’re going to bait Will. Very clever, Agent Crawford; follow his lead like a hunter does with his bloodhound,” the prisoner muses. “Two birds with one stone. Three, if you consider me a bird as well.”

“Pulling you out of this facility and using you as bait would certainly make you a flight risk. I underestimated you before. I won’t make that mistake again.”

“Well, in your defense, I’m not the same person I was when we first met.”

Jack frowns and begins to stand. “No,” he says. “You were always a monster. I could sense it, even when people told me otherwise. I always  _ knew _ .”

A fist slams against the glass. “I was a  _ victim _ ,” the prisoner hisses. The grimace turns into a smile, all teeth, and a chilling laugh follows. “I’m not a victim anymore, Agent Crawford. But I’m no monster, either. I am simply what I’ve always been. It just took Hannibal to bring it out of me.”

Jack sneers. “You’re both monsters,” he says. “Like father, like daughter.”

She laughs again. “Do you mean Hannibal Lecter or my biological father, Agent Crawford?” She hums and sits back down on her bed. “Speaking of Hannibal, you might want to watch your back.” She smiles widely. “Because if he doesn’t stick a knife in it, I just might.”

Jack’s eyes flash at the threat, but he bites his tongue. “Goodbye, Abigail Hobbs.” He turns away from the cell and begins to leave, but stops just a step short of being out of view. “Don’t expect a follow-up interview. I don’t plan on coming back.”

As he leaves, Abigail’s reply follows him, giving him that same feeling he felt in the moments before his confrontation with Hannibal became physical; a sickening sense of cold adrenaline.

“You will.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this story please leave a kudos! Comments are super appreciated! If you want to find/follow/friend me on other platforms, here are my usernames! Don’t be shy! 
> 
> @bisexywill on Tumblr (Main Blog)  
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> @bisexywill on Twitter (Writing Updates & Stuff)  
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